


Metanoia

by Janekfan



Series: Geraskier Fun Day [7]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fever, Gen, Geraskier Fun Day (The Witcher), Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Unrequited Love, kinda??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:42:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24403021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janekfan/pseuds/Janekfan
Summary: The journey of changing one's heart, self, or way of life.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geraskier Fun Day [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1681084
Comments: 8
Kudos: 125
Collections: Geraskier Fun Day





	Metanoia

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Injury!

It’s easier to fight like this. 

Numb, like this. 

Emotionless. Like this. 

Like it was supposed to be. 

Like _he_ was supposed to be. 

Contract after contract. Day after day. Hacking, slashing his way through memories he wished nothing more than to leave up on those cliffs. If he could kill enough. If he could rend and rip and roar enough. If he could spill enough black blood, enough of his own red. Then maybe these feelings would disappear and he could go back to the way it was. 

It sharpened his focus like the edge of a fine blade. So much so that he didn’t notice these familiar hunting grounds. 

And they crossed paths like they so often did before, in a completely new and awful way. Maybe it was muscle memory, dragging him along those old paths, retracing their old haunts. Hoping. 

And that keen focus became liability. Blinded him to the pain in his shoulder until he heard his name shouted above the storm in his head. How long had it been since he heard his name? Blood saturated the ground, soaking it, churned into mud by unsteady feet, and when he went down the beast fell with him, throat slit messily from behind, weeping pitch through shredded flesh. Fine leather boots, bits of blue, delicate brocade, all splashed with that dark ichor. 

Ruined. 

Like everything he touched.

It was all he could see. 

“Gentle, Roach. Easy. Geralt needs you, my beauty.” A familiar voice, calm and steady, his name, his _name_ , falling from familiar lips and he wanted the comfort both provided. Geralt flinched when an icey palm brushed his cheek. “We meet again.” A shaky breath. “Oh, darling. Where to begin.” But his actions belied the lack of confidence his words might have inspired, nimble fingers already moving over his hot, torn skin, assessing, sure and swift, as he always was on the rare occasions Geralt found himself laid low. 

The clink of glass on glass, potions being rattled around in the saddle bag and the witcher wanted to growl, beg him to be careful. Difficult to think of all that hard work going to waste were he to shatter them. “Hush, I know, I’m sorry, Geralt.” The burn accompanying the liquid pouring over his shoulder was agony, almost worse than the bite, he was sure it was a bite, venomous. Poisonous? “Drink this.” The acrid taste, like fire slipping down, down, down, into his belly and burning there. “I’m going to get you to town. There’s a mage.” A sound, a whimper, was it him or the bard? But he was hefted, instructed to grab hold of Roach’s saddle; she was kneeling, and Jaskier shoved his leg over her withers before mounting behind him and clicking his tongue. “Slow, now. Good girl.” The last thing he was aware of was the strong press of Jaskier’s arms around him. 

Steady and sure.

Giddy. Groggy. He can’t differentiate between what is dream and what is reality. At times, Yennefer is there. And they are together, happy in a way he knows they can never be. But it feels real and Geralt lets himself drift along until the sensation of falling off his horse makes him startle, only to be caught, braced, lowered onto a soft surface. 

“I wished to love you.” He mumbles. Because it’s true. But he doesn’t know if he would recognize love enough to not destroy if he found it. 

“Flattery will get you everywhere, dearheart.” Even floating on the current of pain/numbness, he can hear the sorrow running through his voice like a fissure. The bard knows. Somehow. He knows it was meant for another. 

Time. He’d lost it. If the warmth of the fire was anything to go by. His body throbbed in agony and while he thought he would probably survive, it was hard to tell at the moment. Hands, gentle and soft, swept clinging, sticky strands hair away from his face. A cloth, damp and warm, loosened grime and blood and clot from overheated skin, cooling as it dried, a short relief, too short. Jaskier was speaking again, a wandering stream of consciousness as he talked himself through levels of treatment, bits of story and song, old rhyme and riddle, and if Geralt had any wits about him he’d tell the bard to cease his prattling.

So he let go. 

The burn of another potion being poured over shoulder and down throat forced him awake, choking on a cough and writhing away from that incessant conflagration, Jaskier’s prying hands, the grating excuses he always seemed able to construct.

“Sorry, my darling. I know it hurts, but I need to keep the poison at bay.” Cool fingers brushed down his temple and he shied away, hurting, angry, caught up in fever and delirium. 

“Haven’t you done enough?” The first time he’d been able to open his eyes and it’s to the deep blue upset he’d placed in Jaskier. 

This is what he was made for. 

To hurt. 

To damage. 

To destroy.

Why won’t he leave him behind? 

More time gone but he’d seen so much time at this point, did it even matter? 

Jaskier was bustling about the camp, clattering, clanging, always making noise, always drawing attention to himself. In need of it constantly. All eyes on him. If the man could just be still for once.

“Sip this.” And just as suddenly, he was beside him, cradling his heavy head in his lap and holding warm broth to his lips. It was light, likely made of dried meat from his stores, heavily salted and Geralt couldn’t get enough. He was so thirsty, so, so thirsty. “Easy, Geralt. There’s more, I promise. Let this settle.” The bard took this opportunity to check the wound again, humming, heart beating too fast, thrumming all around him. “Take some more, love.” Another cup of broth followed by tea he could taste was full of herbs he recognized. To dull pain, to help sleep, to promote healing, to stop bleeding, to lower fever. Sweetened liberally with the precious honey Jaskier carried in his pack for his throat after long performances. 

The fire cast deep, flickering shadow over the musician’s face and he looked tired, brows creased, but he offered Geralt a patient, indulgent smile, even if it was tight around the edges. 

Another stretch lost but Geralt thought these woods looked different. Brighter somehow. Haloed in gold. He pushed himself up on his uninjured arm, feeling clearer than he had in. 

Days? 

Roach was staked a short distance away, cropping the patch of sunlit grass at her hooves. She was saddled, packs and lute still tied, and Geralt thought Jaskier knew better than that, knew how to properly take care of her. The camp was disordered, his satchel spilled open, empty vials, supplies, clothes littering the ground and honestly, Geralt expected better. Shoving bitter disappointment away for now, he examined the bandaging; tight, neat, clean, and could tell that his mutations were clearing the toxins in his blood put there by monster and potions both. Likely, the ministrations of a mage would not go amiss, though, grudgingly, he had to give Jaskier credit. Without him, it’s more than fair to guess the continent would be short one more witcher. 

“Jaskier?” The forest was silent, eerily so, and a thread of unease wove it’s way up Geralt’s spine. When he stood, the blood rushed to his head, dizzying him, and it was pure, spiteful resolve that kept him upright. Roach lifted her chestnut head, flicked velvet ears back and forth and eyed him inquisitively before going back to her meal, long silky tail flicking at the biting flies. At least they were relatively safe. “Jaskier?” He tried again, beginning to wonder if the bard was here at all or if he’d been imagined. Head pounding, he bent to retrieve the water flask Jaskier had left for him close at hand and drained it in one go before scenting the air and finding it redolent with the warm smell of rosemary and clove.

He found him headed toward the sound of a stream, laid out on his stomach, unmoving, as if he’d simply stopped for a quick nap. Despite his own weakness, Geralt managed to shift him back to camp, to lay him on the one bedroll, and the bard was a sight. Pale, eyes rimmed with dark shadow, doublet stained red and black and stinking of old blood. His. And with shaking, clumsy fingers, Geralt removed layers of torn clothing to discover the wound low over his ribs had bled through the bandages and he knew they had no more. Jaskier was feverish with infection, though his hands were so cold. His pulse too fast, too thready, too weak. When Geralt sat back to take stock, a sliver of blue followed him. 

“Geralt.” Somehow so clear. “Spilled your pack.” His next breath caught in his chest, choked him. “S’sorry.”

“It’s all right.” The kindest lie he could tell him. Even if they both knew it was so. 

It wasn’t about his pack.

Witchers don’t feel. Witchers can’t love. Witchers are stronger alone.

False. 

He was drowning in fear. Overwhelmed by both that and the injury still blazing in his shoulder that he couldn’t decide what to do. And Jaskier kept watching him. 

“I don’t know what to do.” Thin fingers flexed against his own, tipped with the blood still ground under his fingernails. 

“S’okay.”

“It’s not!” Bloodless, the bard’s lips twitched in a shadow of a smile. 

“Would’ve...loved to show you the coast.” Like Geralt wasn’t a century old. Like he’d never seen the ocean. The flush of fever was the only color in his face. 

Like he hadn’t seen the signs. 

_Shaky breath. Cold hands. Rabbit-quick pulse._

“I’ve seen it.” 

“Not like I have.” His belly hitched with his stuttering breath and that brilliant blue finally disappeared beneath fluttering lashes. 

The coast. 

They would go there. Geralt swore to it. 

The weather was mild, it would be the perfect place to regroup. Recover. They could talk about what happened on the mountain as they traveled. Geralt could apologize. Could thank Jaskier for his fortunate timing. 

But only if they made it to the mage. 

And that became his singular focus. 

And when Roach finally flew into town, it was all Geralt could do to bundle Jaskier down from the saddle and stagger through the door on the inn. 

“Please.” His knees buckled, hit the unforgiving wood and echoed in his bones. “Help him.” 

“You’re hurting him.” Casual an observation, like Geralt was somewhere outside his body, watching from too much distance. Drugged. He realized at some point. Forgot at some point to realize again. But he knew Jaskier hurt. Could hear him crying. Confused. Frightened. The poppy milk he’d been given dulling both pain and senses but leaving him addled. “Jaskier.” They were alone. Geralt couldn’t remember when the mage left or how long they’d been in this room. Wrapped in warmth and near darkness, the embers of a banked fire throwing gentle heat and shadow. “Jaskier.”

“Geralt?” Small, like he couldn’t trust what he was hearing. 

“What’s wrong?” Like this, laid out in the same space, Geralt felt transported back to the trials. All those lonely boys intimately acquainted with so much pain and suffering and death. “You can tell me.” He remembered saying these same words so long ago. An age ago. Before everything of himself was gone. Stripped. Mutated. “I won’t make fun.” Childish. Under the fog of all that had happened it was all he could think to be. Stripped to what was left that made him, _him_ and he felt small.

“I don’t know.” The smell of salt thickened with Jaskier’s voice. “I can’t remember where I am.” Geralt was up and moving before the idea fully formed in his mind. With his enhanced vision, the low light was enough to see the bard and all the tinctures and decoctions set out next to him. When he slipped under the quilt to lay beside him the heat was sweltering and even so, Jaskier was shaking like an autumn leaf, curling into him before the pain became too great and he melted, panting. Geralt embraced him carefully, ignoring what little twinge still remained in his shoulder. Thank the goddess Jaskier hadn’t been bitten. He’d have been dead of poison before he hit the ground. 

“I have you, Jaskier.” 

“Where are we?” Slight, the exhale barely gracing his throat difficult to discern with the heat all around them and he tucked him closer.

“Safe.” 

“You shouldn’t be up.” Bright blue eyes peeked from beneath hooded lids, a familiar stubbornness there that made the knot of worry in his chest loosen just that much more. If he could be mouthy, he had to be past the worst of it. 

“I’m not tired.” Geralt shook his head. 

“At least have the respect to speak truthfully.” 

“Maybe I am.” He joined the bard on his bench, tugged up the quilt he was wrapped in to block the chill. Palmed his forehead, hummed, pleased, when he met something closer to normal. “I am tired.” Jaskier tipped onto his healed shoulder. “Of sitting in bed.” And Geralt kindly refrained from reminding him he’d only just been well enough to sit up at all. They stayed that way, letting the fire burn low, Jaskier eventually tucking up his feet and leaning more heavily into the witcher, dozing lightly, and Geralt was content for a time.

“Why did you do that?” Until he wasn’t.

Jaskier kept his silence for a few moments longer, doing Geralt the favor of not pretending.

“You were in trouble.” And Geralt returned it by not denying his observation. “I had to.” He could feel Jaskier looking at him. “Would you rather I hadn’t?” 

“You were hurt.” You almost died. _I am not worth that_.

“You didn’t answer my question.” 

“Hm.”

“It’s all right.” Another measure of comfortable silence counting the slowing beats of Jaskier’s heart. “Loathe as I am to admit. I fear I have overstayed my welcome on this bench.” He sighed, heavy, and Geralt could feel him start to shift, clumsy, slow, careful. To avoid unnecessary pain. 

“I have you.” Despite their relatively similar height, he carried him easily, and Jaskier’s arms folded around him in an embrace. 

“Doesn’t get you out of our conversation.” Mumbled into his neck and it brought a smile to Geralt’s face. 

“We have time.”

_Because of you._

**Author's Note:**

> And it started so strong too T_T
> 
> But I finished!


End file.
